B-Fest! B-Fest! The Great Barbarian Attack of the Wasp People vs. Black Belt Bingo '13

And 'lo for my tenth year did I trudge to the frozen lands of the mysterious Northwest. And there did I see such sights and wonders as would horrify a lesser mortal. And so did I find it good having shared this experience among my boon companions. My tale begins... 

Arriving on Wednesday we met up with the gang at Morton Grove's finest Best Western. The first round of books and CDs were exchanged and we introduced the crew to the glories of The Himalayan, a marvelous restaurant tucked in an otherwise uninspiring shopping center. Afterwards we pressed onward to Half-Price Books as the simple fact that I will need to live to 825 to tackle even 30 percent of my to read pile is no barrier to picking up more. We retired to one of rooms to enact the sacred tradition of drinking good Whiskey out of motel paper cups and ignoring the movie playing on the TV. This year's example being the Manos level looking The Stoneman.

Thursday was spent making a return visit to the Oriental Institute on the University of Chicago's campus, an unassuming space at first, it houses an impressive number of treasures from the cradle of civilization. A showstopper being the towering sculpture that once graced King Sargon II's throne room. And once again, looking at all the marvels from Ancient Egypt convinced me that Abrahamic monotheism spoiled religion for everyone.

We had a delicious supper at my friend Edward's house and then rejoined the chorus at Hala Kahiki a Tiki Bar right of the sets of Mad Men. You can just see Don Draper morosely nursing a Princess in the corner. I managed to break with tradition by not leaving the establishment embarrassingly tanked.  Another night, another room party. In this case the movie was the rather impossible to ignore The Apple, the gonzo Biblical disco music from the Go Go Boys, better known as purveyors of fare like the several hundred Missing in Action and Death Wish films.

Friday began with finally ticking off Lincoln Park Zoo as a Chicago institution I'd yet to visit. Even in the dead of winter it was a strangely lovely place, with the animals in their indoor exhibits or sent away for the season. A sea lion poked his head out of  his heated pool to look at these strangers who were wandering the frigid paths alone. We stayed in the Great Apes house for a while, watching the two new mothers tend to their babies. I made peace that apparently I wasn't going to see any otters this year as the Shedd was closed and the North American river otters were either sound asleep or away until spring. I parted company with Scott and Sam at the reptile house, my phobia of snakes is such that I told them I'd be happy to wait by the sea lion pool while they took as long as they wanted.

I walked around for a bit and waited, they returned and Scott told me with no small amount of glee that the reptile house also housed the small mammals (great pairing there guys! sheesh!) and there was a pair of Asian small-clawed otters just waiting. I wished for the ability to punch the universe in the teeth but my need to see nature's most adorable animal was too great. I closed my eyes like any grown ass adult would and had Scott lead me past the foul serpents to the glass of their pool. It was worth it, they played, frolic'd, romped, twisted, and flicked through the water and my heart was full as we turned our lamps toward Northwestern.

More hellos were said to returning faces and places to sit were found as the lights went down and the screen lit up...

Breaker! Breaker!, Chuck Norris doesn't have his beard yet so it's not really a Chuck Norris movie proper. In fact it was pointed out that clean shaven a young Norris bore a remarkable resemblance to a lost Carradine brother, and really the movie plays out like a Smokey and the Bandit uped version of Kung Fu. Norris' mellow meditation practicing roundhouse kicking trucker riding to rescue his brother from a crooked town boss. I missed the lunacy of Lone Wolf McQuade.

The Wasp Woman, Roger Corman presents another movie that's more interesting than it was probably intended to be. A standard plot of a person turned monstrous by means of mad science meant to rejuvenate is given fresh legs by centering around the sympathetic portrayal of an aging cosmetics executive who makes the ill fated decision to start freebasing a daffy scientist's royal jelly injections. The WereWasp makeup is laughable, but it's a punchy, enjoyable 80 minutes, and worth noting that Catwoman basically stole this plot and executed it not nearly so well.

Steel, The streak of terrible live action kids movies from the 90s being dark horse favorites continues with this notorious clunker. Hollywood made a game attempt to turn Shaq into a movie star, and while he can do many things well, carrying a movie is not one of them. It's also from the Batman Forever period of comic book adaptations when studios thought superhero movies actually being good would cause the crops to fail or something. The flick is almost the platonic idea of how safe, sanitized,  toothless, and prepacked for the Burger King tie-in movies were in the mid nineties (and living in the age of remakes/boots/imaginings I know things could always be worse) and a hoot to shout down with a crowd. You haven't lived until you've seen Judd Nelson try to be a suave, dangerous arms dealer.

The paper plates flew fast and furious during Plan 9 From Outer Space but I caught a cat nap so as to be awake for...

Black Belt Jones, The movie is a treasure watching it by yourself, but there no substitute for you and two hundred other people singing along to the a capella theme. Jim Kelly plays the baddest secret service/federal agent/bodyguard around, reluctantly agreeing to work for The Man temporarily to protect the neighborhood karate school from being torn down by mobsters. The acting is atrocious, the clothing is worse, and I love it more than some members of my actual family. Enough to really hurt my feelings by tracking down the said to be unwatchable sequel.

The Mole People was one I'd seen before and sleep claimed me again only to leave me unfortunately awake for the worst of the year's bill.

Galaxina, Woof, this one stung. A revolutionary comedy completely free of jokes it seems designed to leave you with nothing but space to ponder the unhappy fate of star Dorothy Stratten. A nominal Star Wars spoof, it feels as long as an actual journey to end of the galaxy and if I could press charges against a movie I would've.

Rhinestone, This had been the mind killer the year it first played, but surprisingly went over quite well this time around. Playing it after something so abysmal helped, also the volume was not eardrum dissolving loud. It's still plenty bad, but with an endearing tackiness of early eighties New York before all the character had been scrubbed out. Stallone is a mess but Miss Parton is the real thing, and I can't be too mad at anything that gives me plenty of chances to listen to her sing, even if it means I'm more than likely going to have listen to Stallone bellow like a lost Barbarian Brother too.

Attack Of The 50 Foot Woman was another I'd already seen and as slashers aren't my cuppa I bundled this and Sorority House Massacre as nap time and then trundled down to the icy shores of Lake Michigan and clear my head in the beautiful, merciless cold with the skyline of Chicago shimmering in the distance. Recharged I found a vacant seat in McCormick auditorium for the home stretch, or stench in this case. As it's well known you had better make peace with the fact you will smell like warm onion dip when this is over.

Beach Blanket Bingo,  I really do hope we'll be getting more beach party movies in the future, as I love 'em with a wholly inordinate fondness. Some thirty-two year olds gamely pretend to be teens while some sixty year olds gravely shake their heads at These Kids Today. There are mermaids, the world's oldest Greaser, sky diving, bikinis with bouffants, and Buster Keaton. Perfect viewing for the frozen days of January. What are you waiting for? 

Steele Justice, This was a fun action entry, nothing special but it committed to being the most 1987 movie ever, complete with plunked in, yeah we've seen Miami Vice too, music video shot at apparently The Michael Mann Memorial Armory. 

The Barbarians, My favorite of the night. It's 1987 again and all the gas has gone out of the sword and sorcery genre. No matter, the film makes up for coherence by lobbing just about everything but the serpent puppet kitchen sink at the screen to give the impression of a story, and it just about works too. I am in love with the production design of this movie, from villain Richard Lynch's discarded Lady Gaga wigs to the Del Toro directs an aerobics exercise video of the female costumes. I mourn that the Conan remake was such a dud, robbing us of the opportunity to get new direct to Netflix Instant trash treasures like this. 

Godzilla VS. King Ghidorah, The Japanese can make a bad Godzilla movie too, albeit one that is still nowhere close to the spectacularly hatefully bad of our abortive attempt, and this was a clunker closer. The Ghidorah model was gorgeous, and I'm not staunchly against CGI (well mostly) but still, like here, Godzilla in a suit or GTFO.  

(Note: All images from the invaluable Wrong Side of the Art, click to enlarge, you know the drill.) 

And 'lo did the lights come up for the final time, and were many sorrowful goodbyes said. But it had been a worthy adventure, and one that would be taken again, but that is another story... 

B-Fest 2012: The Fest That Dropped Its Ice Cream On The Yeti And Put It's Weight On It Thought You'd Be Bigger

Well thanks to massive ecological devastation I can't start my b-fest recap with a remark about the blistering cold as it was downright tepid when I arrived. I can however talk about how good it was to see friends old and new, the BMMBers, the locals, the friends of friends, the lovers, the dreamers, and me. But I'm losing track of the thread here so onward.

After the traditional Thursday night tipping back of Tiki drinks at Hala Kahiki we retired to watch the horrifying, and not in a good way, Howling II: Your Sister is a Werewolf, and took a moment of silence for Sir Christopher Lee's dignity. We parted in good spirits and looked forward to tomorrow.

After a wonderful morning gawking at the wonders in the Field Museum we dutifully made our way to the Norris Auditorium on Northwestern's campus and settled in for cinematic wonders of another sort. The lights dimmed and first up was...

Best of the Best, 80s action nonsense is my anti-drug, and I'm particularly fond of the low rent entries that came late in the decade as the cycle coughed itself out.

Symptomatic of the off kilter feel that characterizes a b-fest flick the Commies have taken a hike so it's US vs. South Korea in a Tae Kwan Do match between a rag tag group of misfits and a team, or in the James Earl Jonsian, TEEEEAM, of seasoned professionals who should be able to kill them just by looking in their general direction.

Eric Roberts and his magnificent of head of hair are on hand to cry a lot, ice cream cones are ruined and redeemed, and James Earl Jones is able to get a nice new extension on his summer house. A terrific start to the evening.

The Astro Zombies, Ted V. Mikel's anti-classic clumsily attempts to combine the police procedural with the mad scientist flick. What the means is a lot, no a lot, still not there, more, yep, that many, shots of clocks, test tubes, and John Carradine attempting to install his stereo. Tura Satana slinks around in some groovy cocktail gowns and nothing happens very slowly. If you must brave this one, don't do it alone.



To Catch a Yeti, Terrible 90s kid flicks have yielded some dark horse favorites for the schedule and this is no exception. What could have been just a 10 years too late made for television riff on E.T. with a little girl and a hideous bug eyed puppet standing in for Elliot and an expensive hideous bug eyed puppet is something quite else thanks to some massively bizarre casting and script decisions.

Meat Loaf plays a tracker sent after the Yeti with all the gravitas called for as if he's auditioning for No Country For Old Men. He's after the creature to secure it for a rich brat. Only they've confused "brat" with "multiple murdering sociopath". Filmed in New York City's famed Little Toronto neighborhood it does not wear out its welcome while providing a more than fair portion of "did I just see that?" moments that b-fest requires.

The traditional midnight screening of Plan 9 Nine From Outer Space had the audience flinging paper plates during the UFO flying sequences with gusto and they were cleaned up just in time to see...

Avenging Disco Godfather, My favorite of the offerings and again the apples and Buicks of the tone is key. This a typical cheeky Rudy Ray Moore movie floating on top of a story about drugs destroying a community as bleak and hopeless as anything out of the more serious side of seventies cinema.

Rudy Ray Moore is the Godfather, former cop, current DJ, and soon to be one man take down squad against the angel dust dealer who is poisoning the locals with his product. Moore's wardrobe is a sight to behold and the drug induced hallucinations of the characters are something out of David Lynch directing an episode of Sanford and Sons. Put yo weight on it and watch it if you haven't.



My brain and body where bailing on me so alas I tripped off into slumber during the reportedly amazing two punch of Death Bed: The Bed That Eats and Tarkan vs. The Vikings, thankfully both are on disc. I awoke to be treated to sound of everyone else sleeping their way through...

Mutant Hunt, Most everyone who didn't sleep through this wished they had but I was oddly charmed by it's utter nullity. Someone attempted to do a reworking of The Terminator and Blade Runner, and the fact that they had only ten dollars and no discernible talent in front of or behind the camera did not stop them.

Set in a futuristic dystopia of empty warehouses and ripped leotards an elite squad of non actors most go after rogue, grossly melting cyborgs. Which they do by standing aside bemusedly while the cyborg kills its latest target. Not much else to stay, only that it comes that near future where there are off world colonies but phones still have cords on them.

Sleep and a walk on the beautiful shore of Lake Michigan claimed me during Guru the Mad Monk and the already seen at a previous fest The Brain From Planet Arous but I made sure to make it back in time to see...



Stunt Rock, A fascinating concoction highlighting the insane feats of Australian stunt man Grant Page. there's a bare handful of story about him traveling to the U.S. to be a stuntman on a TV show but the movie firmly avoids engaging much with it at all and instead had the actors talk about his most dangerous stuns and play set footage of them.

For no clear reason the film decides the best partner for this is a MOR rock group who distinguish themselves with an on stage act involving two magicians dressed as Merlin and the Prince of Darkness hurling fireballs at each other. And again, no plot ever touches these scenes either. It makes for something appealing and would be a good disc to spin in the back ground of a party.


Road House, This had become a cult favorite in recent years and with good reason. Lean mean bouncer machine Patrick Swayze rolls into Jasper, Missouri and sets his sights on cleaning up the Double Deuce, the roughest dive in town. He brings zen koans and shattered knee caps to the people oppressed under the thumb of evil town owner Ben Gazzara. Before long the Deuce is oozing neon tubing, he's bedded the comely town doctor, and Sam Elliot has wandered in needing a paycheck like any of us poor mortals. Remember pain don't hurt, and laughter is the best medicine anyway, so belly up to the bar for a glassful.

And with that the audience fought back against the leaden Werewolf in Girls' Dormitory, the inept The Galaxy Invader, and closed things out with the solid It Came From Beneath the Sea.

And then the lights came up and we blinked in that mixture of sadness and relief that it was over. And as we cleaned up the place we started to formulate our plans as to how we'll all find our way back in here in 2013. Because sure as Rudy Ray Moore hates Aunt Betty, we will.

Whales, Giant Monkeys, and Pumamen: B-fest 2011

I've come around to thinking the A&O folks pick the perfect weekend for b-fest. After all if you're nuts enough to want to see a blaxsplotation version of Frankenstein why shouldn't you also be nuts enough to want to travel to Chicago in the dead of winter? I sat out last year and was rewarded with a nicely low key event this year, reconnecting with old friends, making some new ones, and seeing some more Things That Cannot Be Unseen thanks to the lineup.

Arrived on Thursday to have dinner with the mysterious El Santo (a.k.a. Scott) a learned gentleman of the tide lands who is said to have done something at a remote Antarctic research station that is only spoken of in awed whispers as "The Prometheus Incident." Joining us was Edward (a.k.a. erm, Edward) a warrior poet of his Queen's army and renowned for having been captured by a fearsome Raj and earning his freedom by bench pressing a tiger to impress the ruler.

Both made for great company at The Himalayan, a terrific Indian/Nepalese place where the sauces where so good you felt the only way you could express your full gratitude was to rub them into your face arms and hair. We resisted and retired to Hala Kahiki, a charming kitsch oasis where the drinks seemed designed to remove you from your dignity as quick as possible. The night closed in Bro Rag and Mal's room over an expensive bottle of Vodka and a Yokai film that deserves much closer examination at a later date.




The next day was the official start of the show but the day left plenty of time for sight seeing. I finally got to visit the Shedd Aquarium. There must be something in our evolutionary memory of the sea that can account for the pupil dilating, blood pressure lowering effect of just watching whales swim. It was a lovely afternoon watching a Beluga with her calf, a pod of Pacific Dolphins arc through the air, Sea Otters dance around each other, and strange creatures out of Weird Tales that make their homes in the dark crevices of the oceans. All too soon it was time to go but I settled into Norris Auditorium in anticipation of the other kinds of strange wonders that where about to be unleashed onscreen...

The Pumaman
This is one of my favorite MST3K episodes so I was curious if it'd feel flat without those cow town puppets in the corner. Happily it took flight with the audience with much greater ease than its hapless hero. Whisper thin paleontologist Tony Farms discovers he's the heir to the powers of Italians trying to cash in on Superman with just 10 dollars.

When he puts on a tacky belt he becomes The Pumaman! , clad in Dockers and a long sleeve crew neck t-shirt and endowed with the power of awkwardly flailing in front of aerial footage of London and the power of constantly getting his Puma-Ass handed to him. The belt is given to him by Andean Shaman Vadinho. There's a long, ignoble tradition of movie sidekicks doing all the actual heavy lifting but it reaches new ridiculous extremes here. Vadinho throws all the effective punches and takes down head villain Donald Pleasence when Pumaman finally gets painted into a Puma-Corner.

Sometimes these spaghetti exploiters are graced by a much better than they deserve score from folks like Ennio Morricone or Goblin. Not so here and it's prefect really, if your hero is wearing a poncho from the Juniors department it only behooves him that his soundtrack should sound like someone holding a tape recorder over the sample button on a Casio.




Top Dog
The real surprise entertainer of the night. What looked to be a tepid way too late riff on Turner And Hooch instead held interest by having some of the most schizophrenic tonal shifts ever. Scenes of cops getting shot point blank in the head are next to scenes of the dog waggishly stealing some food off of lead Chuck Norris's table. It's as if Cannon got the rights to the Benji property but decided to fashion it as yet another Death Wish sequel. It might not scale the heights of divine madness like Lone Wolf McQuade but it was quite fun to watch the dynamic non-acting of its cast or how the filmmakers took great pains to not take advantage of any of San Diego's many attractive shooting locations.

Mama Dracula
While the first two features tried to shamelessly ape previous successes to make a quick buck this bizarre wonder obviously had capital A Art on it's Laudanum soaked mind. An engagingly strange, at least until the 90 minute mark, romp that retells the Elizabeth Bathory legend by way of a lost Andy Warhol/Paul Morrissey Dracula feature.

Louise Fletcher is in full Frau Blucher accent tending two Tiny Tim vampire sons in a sumptuous country estate and feeding her habit through luring young victims into the clothing boutique she runs on the side. And while all this going on she has a Harold Lloyd reborn as a new wave singer mad scientist on staff trying to invent a perfect synthetic blood so she can quit risking discovery to maintain her eternal youth and beauty.

This would have worked best as a hypnotically weird 20 minute short. As it is it doesn't have the loopy energy to sustain a 2 hour running time and devolves into a showcase of some admittedly splendid Art Nouveau furnishings. Still, I'm glad b-fest unearths films like this and I'd love a director's commentary.

Plan 9 From Outer Space
Ed Wood's masterpiece and one that's become as familiar as an old friend. I'm more interested in seeing what folks have scribbled down on the paper plates that are thrown during the flying saucer footage. You find some real gems, and some real care. One person does nifty ink drawings of beloved cult actors who've left us in the previous year.

Blackenstein
Alas I had wanted to stay up for this but I could feel the dread hand of exhaustion clutch itself around my heart and so slept through it only to awaken to the eldritch horrors of...

Manos: The Hands of Fate
The Spiritual Ancestor of The Room in that it falls so outside the conventions of basic narrative storytelling let alone every kind of cinematic convention it almost becomes a brilliant piece of Outsider Art. Another MST3K classic this was a bit harder to endure without the wisecracks as the grainy landscape footage and queasy hopeless pall hanging over the film makes it feel like watching atrocity footage with the actual atrocity bits snipped out. But again, I'd love a director's commentary for this too.

The Manitou
This, THIS, is one of the great ones. An only in the seventies premise with an an only in the seventies cast. Tony Curtis plays a conman psychic running a racket on the rich little old ladies in his San Francisco neighborhood whilst wearing a Doctor Strange robe. His sweet deal is shaken up one day when he receives a call from a former girlfriend. She's asking for a ride to the hospital because it seems there's a fetus growing at an alarming right at the base of her neck. And nobody blinks. The next day the attempted removal goes disastrously wrong and it becomes clear the more Curtis investigates that the fetus is actually a reincarnated Medicine Man from a long extinct tribe desperate to be reborn and reclaim his powers. And nobody blinks.

Can Tony Curtis and Not Really Native American Shaman Michael Ansara stop Misquamacus from ushering in an era of darkness? Will a hidebound by tradition doctor finally accept the unbelievable when a floor of his new hospital is turned into a paper mache ice cave? And and is a topless Susan Strasberg shooting lasers at a space lizard enough to right the cosmic balance? Tune in, turn on, and completely loose your mind and find out. Highly, highly recommended.




Undefeatable
Cynthia Rothrock attempting to act put me back to sleep so thankfully I apparently missed the cornucopia of audience rape jokes (stay classy guys!). And I kept napping through I Accuse My Parents to find I'd taken one hell of a wrong left turn at Albuquerque...


Night of the Lepus
Another of the great ones. With another unbelievable cast, this time serving a tale of giant killer bunny rabbits running loose in the Southwest. Yes Giant Killer Bunny Rabbits. And again, nobody blinks. I can tell you about this film, you can even look up clips on YouTube but nothing compares to sitting in a theater and seeing a herd of bunnies charging through a darkened miniature set, and the war drums are pounding on the soundtrack and you know characters are about to get killed and yet you can't stop noticing their wiggly little noses, or their pert little cotton tails, or their long, adorable ears. The producers tried, oh how they tried, but there is no way to make a horrifying Earth's Vengeance Reaper out of something you want to rub on the belly.

American Ninja
American Ninja 2 was one of my personal favorites of 2009's schedule so it was with much enjoyment I watched how the rich legacy began. Not as full on delightfully gonzo as the sequel the first concerns pouty Michael Dudikoff arousing the ire of his bunk mates at basic training by not remembering his past and being better at everything than them. Steve James is not at full Steve Jameson awesomeness yet but he gets his moments, particularly when he and Dudikoff team up to take down the bad guys and their Skittles ninja army.

And while it's not as mad as the second it's still a Cannon film and so takes place in the Cannon universe. A universe where there are more Uzis than cops, and the most surprising people have Uzis, and so long as your shirt is sufficiently ripped and your headband tight you can skirt due process.

Skidoo
This was an unpleasant surprise. I have a copy of this but I'd seen it in pieces. Watched in one sitting it unfolds into a paisley kidney punch of that hideously perfect Anti-Entertainment, The Unfunny Comedy. What felt like a wacky misfire is revealed to be a joyless slog watching Old Hollywood trying to deal with a counterculture that they are baffled by at best or have outright contempt for at worst.

The latter feeling is easy to understand as the hippie characters are as likable as the ones in a Dirty Harry film. But the squares, played by a once in a lifetime lineup of Jackie Gleason, Carol Channing, Frank Gorshin, Cesar Romero, and Burgess Meredith among others, are as embarrassing as your parents trying to ask about that "Tronic" movie and if your FacePlace friends like that Lady Gogo singer.

Still if you ever wanted to see all the villains from the Batman TV series together and tripping balls it's the only game in town. Notable for only achieving a measure of genuine wit at the very end as Harry Nilsson, who composed the film's score, sings the end credits. It's not just relief that the movie is at long last over but the bit actually achieves the breezy, let it all hang out tone that the film has been failing at for the last ninety wretched minutes.




Cool As Ice
I thought about sitting this one out as it played at my first b-fest back in 2003, and I was more than content to go another 8 years without seeing it again. I absolutely hated it this time too but it turned out to be fun to revisit my hatred, nostalgia hatred if you will.

Vanilla Ice does a remarkably good job playing a hateful tool bag whose motorcycle gang gets stranded in a small town leaving plenty of time for Ice to charm the locals and nearly decapitate his love interest with his bike by way of tying to impress her. Michael Gross is on hand to give the required "I've got electric bills like everyone else okay?" performance.

Perversely the film looks great, it has some neat production design and it's beautifully shot by Spielberg's frequent, Academy Award winning collaborator Janusz Kaminski. But the seeping charisma vacuum that is Vanilla spoils any chance of this elbowing its way onto the shelf of terrible musicals I have far too much patience for. A Jager shot of a movie, in that every so often I have one to remind myself I really, really don't like Jager shots.

Mighty Peking Man
I love giant monkey movies. I even love terrible giant monkey movies. Which is fortunate because because outside a few notable examples most are complete rubbish. Expecting the 1976 King Kong to be a hit pretty much every other country with a functioning film industry rushed out a copy. Most were as regrettable as their model but managed to suck in a far more entertaining manner and for far much less money too.

Our mopey hero leads an expedition into the jungle where he discovers that once again Eastern ape suit technology lags far behind the West. He also makes the acquaintance of a manque Sheena who was able to forage a Lancome counter in the unforgiving heart of the jungle. He makes the rather easy to foresee as unfortunate descision to bring both back to civilization. It ends badly for just about everyone save him.

Another example of the evening's odd mini theme of so called heroes causing more trouble than they solve and suffering no consequences for it what so ever. It was a great capstone to the lineup and as the lights came up I felt that traditional pang of sadness that another year had come to an end and I relief that I would soon be able to grab a hot shower to slough the filth of too many caffeine drinks and Vanilla Ice's complicated haircut off me.

Thanks again to the A&O folks, and to everybody who made it. And to those who couldn't here's to 2012 and you were there in spirit. Even when Carol Channing did a striptease for Frankie Avalon. In fact especially then.


(photo taken from jima's flickr stream)